18 #3
Still, my thoughts keep rewinding. Back to his declaration that we share everything. The more I run my fingers along that idea, the less outrage I feel.
I expect it to burn.
It doesn’t.
Which is… troubling.
Because nothing has changed. I am still trapped. He is still the man who brought me here. The fact that some damaged part of me can find pockets of solace in this horror does not make it tender.
It makes me afraid of myself.
It could just be my frightened brain whispering its own seductive lies, building cathedrals out of cages. I’ve seen mirages before, romanticised things that should’ve been red flags. This time, I’m determined to keep the facts close to hand.
What are they?
Abandonment issues, for sure. Not just mine – though his are on an entirely different level.
And then, uninvited, his voice comes back to me in words from the London airport, ‘Stay with me. That’s all you need to do right now. Just… stay. With me.’
I settle deeper into the pillow, curling on my side to face the fire. The mattress is too soft, the warmth too coaxing.
Stay with me…
Did he mean just in that moment? Or was he asking something else?
I rub my face hard with both hands, groaning into my palms.
I’m an idiot. That’s what I am.
I’ve already been burned glamorising bad things. Bad people.
And here I am again, barely seconds after I told myself I wouldn’t – doing it all fucking over again.
My ribs snatch the breath back into them and I turn over as if I can make the thoughts disperse with motion.
But the sudden sound of water fills the room – and I go numb.
It’s loud. Too close. As if—
My head jerks up. A breath splinters in my mouth.
The bookcase-door is wide open.
Steam. Shape.
I drop flat against the pillow as if struck, my heart hammering like I’ve been caught red-handed.
I didn’t really look.
However—
Now I know that I can. And I’m not very good at fighting my own demons.
He did this on purpose.
He must have.
My mind blanks. The only thing that that fills the space is the sound of the water running and the heat of his body my mind remembers.
Then it expands to the curve of a shoulder I’ve only ever seen clothed.
The muscle under his shirt that flexed when he was close.
The narrow dip above his hipbones when he lifted firewood, his hem riding up just enough to betray it.
The subtle map of veins on his arms beneath the tattoo…
Elias Crane may be absolutely mental, but under all that threat and control and emotional warfare, he is also a man who was physically designed to tempt.
And nature, I’m learning the hard way, is considerably less interested in context than instinct is. It wants to know what happens when warmth and danger share the same bed. How much friction they cause together.
And what devastation they might leave behind once they collide.
My eyes wander to the desk opposite the bed, if only to feed my mind something other than what it’s gnawing on now.
Three empty frames sit at slight angles on its surface. From the bed, their glass catches the open doorway behind me.
There, rendered in faint silver and pale suggestion, is the unmistakable outline of a very naked Elias Crane.
My eyes widen before they close tight.
No. No. No.
Bad man. Big problems. Captive woman. Bigger problems.
I have lost it. Truly.
When I open my eyes again, they traitorously drift to the desk once more. The camera rests there behind the frames, smiling at me.
My knees draw closer beneath the duvet before I realise I’ve moved them. Shame arrives half a heartbeat later.
The camera is whispering things I’m trying not to hear. Wrenching my gaze from it, I look towards the foot of the bed – only for my eyes to spring right back to the fucking frames.
Bloody hell… his body is fucking art.
The muscle rolls beneath the spray as he leans into it. His back narrows towards his waist, but the rest dissolves into the steam and whatever my imagination insists on supplying.
I watch the torrent track down his spine and can almost feel the way it trembles against his skin before gravity claims it.
My eyes flit to the camera again. I blink hard.
The power of Christ compels you.
The glass doesn’t show any of it. That’s all me. My depravity. My hunger that I’ve been ignoring for a long time.
I fight the old instinct that is trying to turn terror into fucking composition. Make a frame out of the thing that should make me recoil.
But I look again.
He shifts to the side.
This must be what watching a wild animal through reinforced glass feels like. Except I know the glass isn’t really protection – because it’s just a frame.
The water shuts off with a hiss that dispels everything. I jerk away from the sight, flip quickly towards the fire for the second time.
But the buzzing in my ears doesn’t stop. My heart drones, frantic. Every step he makes back into the room echoes between the walls.
Like a countdown.
To the promise I made.
To the horrifying knowledge that captivity hasn’t killed the desire – only taught it to hide its face.